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Battle of North Ford
The Battle of North Ford was an action of the Accordance War. Overview * From the memories of Jonathan Silvereye, satyr, VAW We were prepared, we thought. Our freehold was barricaded and booby-trapped, ready for siege. What we didn’t know about was the trod. As all eyes peered through boarded windows and arrow slits, the enemy began pouring out of a door we never knew existed, capturing our base and nearly half the city’s Kithain. From there, it went downhill. We were chased around the city for days, bereft of a Glamour source for healing or magic. Any stand we made was easily broken as we were outflanked, outnumbered, and just plain outdone. Each time we ran, we left behind another brave fighter or two. Finally; tired, wounded, and demoralized, Captain Phelps gathered us for a final stand. He figured that if we didn’t act then, we wouldn’t have the strength to put up any kind of fight. We drew the line at the warehouses near the railyard. I can still remember watching the enemy form up, laughing and singing like they were playing a game. This time, they weren’t trying any fancy maneuvering; I guess they didn’t think they needed to, as banged up as we were. They didn’t even ask for our surrender, damn them. No, they just wanted a toe-to-toe slugfest, and they wanted us all dead. They advanced on us like they were on a Sunday stroll. Our ranks were thinning under the steady rain of arrows from the sidhe archers, and there wasn’t anything we could do; we lost our archers in the same skirmish where the commander fell. Still, we braced to meet the advance. Then came the rhythmic beat of steel against pavement. The sidhe heard it too, and they stopped. Then we saw them… a dozen of the meanest, wickedest redcaps I’ve ever seen. Each one had nail piercings and tattoos so disgusting I don’t even want to think about it. And they all had red caps (judging by the stains on their foreheads, I don’t think they were dyed in henna). All wore these heavy, steel-shod boots that rang and thundered when they marched, and all carried these wicked-looking, very real spears. But the leader made them all look like cub scouts. He wore a shirt of red scales, and he had screw piercings running all the way up his arms. Plus, he had the biggest spear of the lot. When they got closer, everybody on the field felt it: a cold that heads straight for your bones, the nails-on-a-chalkboard kind of chill that creeps under your skin and tickles your hairs. The spears were all frigging iron. One of the graybearded fellows whispered, “That’s Toren na Gulon, of the Iron Brigade. Gods, let them be on our side!” His prayer was answered as the redcaps formed a wedge and marched towards the nobles with leveled spears. Well, the sidhe weren’t completely stupid. They started shooting at the redcaps, but the supermen laughed… a sound like an earthquake… and swatted the arrows aside with their spears. One of the traitor trolls lobbed a cantrip powerful enough to knock down a barn, but Toren thrust his spear into the oncoming spell, and it fizzled. Toren was at the point of the wedge as it drove into the enemy. He swatted aside a sidhe’s sword and buried the iron in the man’s belly. You have no idea what kind of sound a man makes when his very soul is burned away. You can’t even imagine it. Now this whole time, we’re just standing there, our jaws on the asphalt, too dumbfounded to move. As the first knight fell, we all heard the troll yell, “Talibin!” He ran another sidhe clean through, and cried “Rikard!” And then we realized: those were the names of the Martyrs of Beltaine. It was like he was avenging each in kind. The memory of the Night of Iron Knives got us going again, b’God. With the words “Beltaine!” and “Avenge!” on our lips, we charged forward with all our strength. Of course, the enemy caught on pretty quick, too, and they were running before we could reach them. We were chasing down nobles for hours. Okay, some of us (I won’t point fingers) didn’t hear too well when a foe we ran to ground asked for quarter, but don’t think they would have spared us either. As we straggled back to the field, we met with a gruesome sight. The Iron Brigade was carrying away the sidhe banner. The pole was topped with the enemy captain’s head! Several of the redcaps were soaking their hats in the pools of blood. What they did with the bodies… several of Phelps’ men got violently ill on the spot, and I’m not ashamed to count myself among them. It was horrible. I’m proud of myself for standing with the others; I’m not proud of myself about everything I saw or did. But I won’t apologize. It was war. References # CTD. Fool's Luck: The Way of the Commoner, p. 41. Category:Changeling: The Dreaming Events